Page 69 of Beautiful Ruin

I intend to use that belief in my favor.

When I head to Ivan’s wing, I don’t stop until I reach his office.

Two guards follow several steps behind me. They don’t try to redirect me at first. Maybe because they think I’ll turn toward the breakfast room or the library. Somewhere more acceptable. But I keep walking past the long gallery with its old portraits and dead men staring down from their gilded frames. Past the sitting room where Alina once made me laugh after Moscow swallowed me whole.

The closer I get, the colder the house feels.

Ivan’s wing is quieter than the rest of the estate. More severe. The walls here are paneled in dark wood, the sconces set lower. It is a part of the house everyone avoids unless they have been summoned.

The man stationed there is older, his expression carefully blank. He straightens when he sees me, but there is none of the wary respect I’d grown used to from the guards who knew Rowan and would act accordingly with him at my side.

Now there is only me.

“Where is he?” I demand.

The guard’s face remains neutral. “Miss Kuznetsov, you are to remain in the east wing until further notice.”

“That isn’t what I asked.”

He shifts slightly. “I apologize, but⁠—”

“Move,” I say and step forward.

He quickly shifts into my path. “I can’t allow that.”

“Miss Kuznetsov, lunch should be getting served. We’ll take you to the dining room,” one of the guards behind me says, reaching for me.

For a few seconds, I stand there staring at the carved wood door behind the guard I’m facing, breathing hard through my nose as my hands curl into fists at my sides.

Ivan is beyond that door, protected by loyal men who will never question him. He has removed Rowan from my side, and now he thinks all that’s left is for me to remain the obedient niece he’s always thought me to be.

I want to scream.

The urge rises so violently it almost chokes me. I want to scream his name until he’s forced to open that door and see what is going on, to address the pain he has caused me.

Maybe I should break something expensive instead.

A one of a kind vase, a framed portrait, one of those ugly antique lamps lining the hallway, something from the gallery wall. Costly enough to get his attention, loud enough to fracture the suffocating quiet this place has descended into.

I imagine porcelain exploding against the wall, shards of it scattering across the floor like teeth. I imagine the guard flinching and the door behind them opening, Ivan stepping out with that calm, disappointed expression, finally forced to face me instead of sending orders through other men’s mouths.

“Miss Kuznetsov,” the guard in front of me says carefully.

I punch him in the jaw.

Two sets of hands grab at me instantly as the guard’s head jerks back. Pain explodes through my knuckles the instant they connect with bone. A bright, brutal burst that shoots up my hand and into my wrist, making my breath hitch.

Though I did not hit him hard, he stumbles back out of sheer shock. One hand comes up to rest on the side of his face. Before any of them have a chance to recover, my entire body shoots up from the ground. The top of my head connects against a solid chin.

The guard to the left of me curses and lets go. I move before he reaches for me again, ducking sideways. My shoulder slams into the other guard to jostle him hard enough to let go, the same way I did the first one.

“Do not touch me,” I snap.

All three men freeze for a fraction of a second.

I am still Ivan’s blood, and even in this new, suffocating reality of the estate, that means damage done to me must be explained. Bruises must be justified, rough hands must have reasons to survive under my uncle’s scrutiny.

I use their hesitation to shove past the first guard, my shoulder clipping with his as I grab the handle of the door and push it open.